Have Mercy On My Heart
by AMessofADreamerx
Summary: Ruth Laurie has known Sherlock Holmes for a very long time, though Sherlock would rather forget about the school years spent together… and has, till she's transferred to Scotland Yards forensic team. OCxSherlock – slow burn little love story for s3 because I've never written one before (a love story, that is). I'll try to keep whump out of it...Chapter Six: Regular/Irregular
1. Prologue: Forgettable-Unforgettable

**Forgettable/Unforgettable**

"Laurie, don't be offended by anything Sherlock says. That's just Sherlock," Lestrade began informing me as we climbed the stairs to the apartment that held the dead body I was called in to examine. "He will be rude and may very well slam the door in your face. At least, he did with our last analyst, 99% of the time, give or take. Don't take it personally."

But I just snorted through my nose. "Thanks, but I know how to take it. I went to secondary with him. Sounds like he hasn't changed."

His mask of disdain and arrogance was worn across his face like the way girls in upper school wore their makeup… it took an outsider to realize just how fake those girls were, and how fake Sherlock Holmes was. And that outsider was definitely me, the low income kid from the wrong side of town.

Lestrade held the door open for her and closed it behind them. "You went to secondary with Sherlock? You know him better than all of us then! And he was just as much an arrogant arse as he is now?"

I was about to answer him, when a mop of curly dark hair caught my eye. Sherlock was already there and after about nineteen years, it was quite the shock to me. His face was about two inches from the dead mans' but he didn't react to our walking in, though good for me because it gave me a moment to take him in.

Bloody hell, how has he grown! He's got about a head on me now, looking like all legs. He was bent, but thanks to a billowing coat, I couldn't make out much more of his body. Sherlock straightened up with a loud sigh.

"And I thought I left all those idiots behind in school," he said, turning to face me, before his eyes widened ever so slightly- just slightly enough if I hadn't already taking in his unusual color eyes, I wouldn't have completely missed it. In nineteen years you forget the details of eye colors, though I'm not sure how I ever did.

"Good to see you again, too, Sherlock," I replied, rolling my eyes, before answering Lestrade's question. "Yeah, it doesn't seem he outgrew his arrogant arse-iness."

"I don't recall going to school with you." A feign look of confusion scrunched up Sherlock's face as he responded.

I shot him a mirroring look, though mine was genuine. I know we were never friends. We didn't have friends. But that didn't mean we didn't always have each other, and that didn't mean I didn't always wish we were.

"C'mon, Sherlock," I rolled my eyes again before saying my name, feeling ridiculous, "Ruth Laurie. We were often lab partners. We even ate lunch together most days!"

"Deleted," he shrugged, before grasping his hands behind his back. His chin pointed, he looked around the small room one more time. When his eyes got to me, they looked right through me. It was like I suddenly turned invisible.

"Deleted?" I sputtered, and Lestrade gave me a worried glance, and opened his mouth to cut in.

"Sherlock-" but unfortunately Sherlock was already answering and didn't listen to the DI, which by the look on Lestrade's face made me feel like it happens often.

"If it's not important to remember, I delete it from my mind," Sherlock answered simply.

"Laurie, just ignore-" Lestrade put in, shooting daggers at Sherlock, and he just shrugged with innocent eyes, but it was me cutting him off this time.

"Okay, yeah, I was wrong. Him being an arrogant arse overgrew him. It must be all he is now," I snapped, color flushing my cheeks at his behavior. It was always awkward to think someone was who they weren't… but this was definitely Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes definitely knew me.

But it was like I hadn't said anything and so I tried to say something that would grab his attention. "I'll reiterate what I meant earlier: nobody wanted to work with Sherlock. Just as well, nobody wanted to work with me, but not because I was the start of all the primary school drama. And we only ate lunch together because as the only few not part of a clique there wasn't many other seating options."

Still nothing.

"Freak can't remember the only girl who'd choose to talk to him, probably ever, but can tell your life story from the way you tucked in your shirt that morning," Sally Donovan snorted from the corner of the room.

I let out a breath, guided so perfectly by my bottom lip that I felt it blow my bangs around. It's been nineteen years since this feeling was used, but it took less than five minutes to feel it again. A sense of protectiveness overcame me and I did what I did best. I defended, "Well, I may have been forgettable, but he surely wasn't. Freak? He was more feared. Relationships never lasted more than a couple months. Tests were never cheated on. And if Sherlock couldn't pick apart a relationship, they lasted most of school. Some got married! By the end of it, people actually came to him! It was quite amazing. How do you became the most hated but the best in the school?"

Sherlock's eyes finally flicked back to mine, and held them. His eyebrows scrunched into an unrecognizable expression, but I just held his look in a dead lock.

The door behind me bursted open with cries of, "Sorry! Sorry I'm late. Mary had me doing something or the other for the wedding..." We all turned as a shorter man with sandy hair entered the room.

He stood for a moment and shifted his feet awkwardly, feeling the tension in the room. "Oh. Oh! Right. Obviously I'm needed. Whatever it was, Sherlock, it was Not Good. And you need to apologize."

"I only want apologies if they're genuine and those kind of things normally aren't, coming from Sherlock," I said in a low, controlled voice. I was honestly hurt by Sherlock but the best thing to do is act like you aren't. It's all a game to him and oh, am I rusty.

"Well, I'm genuinely sorry Sherlock has done something to offend you, if that helps any," the newcomer said to me, before sticking out a hand. "Doctor John Watson. Believe it or not, Sherlock's my friend."

"Colleague!" Sherlock put in with a huff, feeling a bit dampered, I suppose.

I shared a knowing look with Watson and rolled my eyes for the what-th time since Sherlock has been back in my life? "Ruth Laurie. Believe it or not, I used to go to school with that bugger over there," I introduced myself, taking his hand. "I've heard you're also Sherlock's handler. Among other good, better things, of course."

John sighed warily. "I was trying to retire from that title, you know, since I'm getting married and all, but Sherlock's an impossible man. I feel like a parent most days than not."

"At least you know you can handle kids since you've had Sherlock in your life," I joked, causing the doctor to let out a chuckle.

"Okay, now that everyone has been acquainted to the new forensic- Laura, no, Laurie- but there's still the body in the middle of the room and I've got better things to do with my time if we're going to talk about unimportant things and not address this situation at hand. That I have already solved, I might add, and have you even looked at the body yet, Laurie?" Sherlock said, and I swallowed, trying on the impassive face he has mastered.

"So, the Great Sherlock has spoken and now we must obey?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth when everyone redirected their attention to the task at hand. I may have been feeling a bit salty.

"Basically, yeah," Donovan muttered to me.

"The quicker you accept this, the best off you'll be," Sherlock answered, before going off in a breathless spill, explaining the exact thing that as a forensic specialist, should be my job. I wonder if the previous forensic ever felt this useless...

* * *

As I bagged potential evidence for testing, I thought about the history Sherlock and I have, and I realized I did have a lot of ammunition on him. He wasn't quite the man he was today and I saw the things that caused the changes, and I saw a lot of other things that would possibly make him uncomfortable that I knew… maybe he needed more reassuring his secrets were forever safe with me.

I got his number off Lestrade and I texted him once I was in a cab, heading to my flat.

 _Look, Sherlock, I know_ _school_ _wasn't always_ _the_ _best of times… but your secrets are still safe with me. – R_

I sent the text, feeling guilty I told as much as I did of his upper school experience. And the way Sally dove straight in on that! I completely set her up when I spent four years promising I would never hurt him. I looked outside at the glistening city. Despite Sherlock's shouts of 'colleague' I know he's changing yet again. For even though I had all the makings of a friend, Sherlock didn't have the capacity to be one, but it took me too long to realize that.

I leaned my head against the cabbie's window. But somehow John Watson has shaped Sherlock into someone who has friends.

I want to know how he did it.

* * *

Branching out of my normal fanfic fandoms here! I have loved me some Sherlock for about three years now, but I've been too scared to write one of my own haha I'm currently on my seventh run of the series and thought, 'what the hay'… and so Ruth was formed! Title from Mercy by Shawn Mendes aka my recent song obsession. I've had it on repeat for two days straight. xD well let me know what you're thinking so far by replying! I appreciate your time xx Anna

PS. Faceclaim is Krysten Ritter :)


	2. Chapter One: Important-Unimportant

**Important/Unimportant**

Sherlock never responded to my text, but I didn't expect him to, so no worries there. He was, unfortunately, still on my mind and it caused me to open a box that was usually better left shut. In the deep corners of my closet hid my childhood in cardboard. And like Sherlock, I had some secrets I'd wish to keep as well.

Flattened out on the bottom of the box were photos from baby to the end of upper school, the years of my life I wish I could undo.

I looked through pictures of my parents, younger pictures of me with a mushroom hair cut, and ah… the one photograph I have of Sherlock and me.

For my fifteenth birthday, my family and I went out of town for the weekend. One of the gifts was a disposable camera. I took some on the trip, but I still had a couple left over, and my mum told me to take it to school and have fun with my 'friends'. She hadn't quite figured out yet that my 'friends' was a self-claimed high functioning sociopathic teenage boy incapable of that responsibility.

I tried to let her live that fantasy for as long I could though, and so that money the camera went into my bag, and during lunch that day I awkwardly asked Sherlock to take a picture with me. It took a lot of wheedling, but he did say yes. And it was then this photo of us, a selfie we call it now, was formed.

At that time, Sherlock's curly hair fell to his shoulders and cut across his eyes. I think kids were also jealous of his skill of being able to see through a veil of hair, as well as his deduction skills. But for this picture, I forcefully pushed his bangs from his eyes and he threatened to call it all off, but in the end, continued on anyways.

However it didn't even matter much as my selfie skills weren't well practiced and I managed to get my entire pimply, metal-mouth face, but only half his face. Add to the fact his lips were pressed together and his bright eyes were often portraying something intense, it probably made one of the worst selfies in history.

But I kept it in the bottom of my cardboard box nonetheless.

I looked at the picture frames on my dresser, though still scarce, were things I'd rather bring up now. A picture with my friend Molly Hooper. We formed a bond over dead bodies when I first transferred over to Scotland Yard. My white cat, Draco Meowfoy. I know it was kind of lame, but… old habits die hard? And then a picture of my entire team at Scotland Yard. Again, a bit lame, but breaking the family cycle, starting new, was something I was awfully proud of.

I wondered why it mattered so much that Sherlock remembered who I was. I mean, if other people were interested to me, would I have stuck to him like I did? In the whole four years of upper school, I barely scratched the surface on who he was, while he'd come away with my entire life story.

I huffed out a sigh and decided to just stick it in my backpack. The guys at the station would surely get a kick out of it and I really did want to see Sherlock's face when he realizes I have photographic proof.

After that, I shower quickly and change into pyjamas. I took Draco and crawled in bed, though I propped myself up and sat out the controller next to me, popping on the telly.

I absentmindedly watched the telly reruns till I fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock was turning over evidence and Lestrade was furiously writing down the words he said. Oh, he must love his life now. That even though he was an arrogant cock he is still the most important man in the room.

I was watching him from my little office, my fingers pulling down my blinds. I sat back down in my chair, trying to finish the report from yesterday, but then my phone vibrated with a text. I took it out and suspicion automatically hit me at the name of 'blocked' on my ID part.

 _So what's That Molly is Making?_

 _Will look Unimportant_

 _Not true However_

 _Make not what it Says_

"I don't understand," I mumbled, reading the text again in my mind. I bagged my last piece of evidence as a knot of anxiety formed in my stomach… something seemed terribly off.

"Sherlock!" I yelled, bursting through my door. His head jerked up and I began waving my phone around, as I remembered Molly informing me what happened to John a couple weeks back. He made his way towards me, though with his long strides it didn't take much effort. "When John was- you got… this, right? It was like this." I was a bit breathless and my thoughts will disoriented with worry. I shoved my phone shakily in his face and he snatched it from me, so he could put it at a place he could actually read it.

"'So Molly Will Not Make It'", Sherlock glanced at it and the words came falling out of his mouth. He went very still then.

"Molly… Hooper? That's my friend, she works at the morgue-" I began slowly, failing to comprehend quite what's going on.

"I know who Molly Hooper is," Sherlock cut me off, in near horror. Why was my friend in a skip code message- oh… oh! Molly was in trouble, but why? I understand John, since he's so important to Sherlock, and apparently this guy was out for him. But Molly? Yeah, I know Sherlock uses her lab sometimes, but I didn't know she'd be a… weakness.

He suddenly took off running, from zero to hundred in two seconds flat and my legs took off before my brain could think what he was doing.

"Lestrade, get an ambulance to St Barts! It's Molly!" I called when my brain caught up to my legs and I was following Sherlock out the door.

Once we stood out front, Sherlock paused and frantically rubbed at his eyes. "What would be quickest way…!" He muttered to himself and looked out into the street. If I remembered correctly, last time a motorbike had been accessible.

This time there wasn't any. I scanned the street for even a black cab, but only array of personal cars.

"Run!" Sherlock finally exclaimed and took off in the direction of St. Barts. It was about fifteen minutes by foot… were we going to make it? No, but hopefully Lestrade has contacted the hospital by now. They could get there within minutes!

Sherlock's long legs propelled him farther ahead of me and it wasn't long till I was lagging behind. I was a frigging forensic specialist who ate an abundance of takeout on my evenings off. I never got any action.

He had to problem with pushing people out of the way, but 'sorry' became a meaningless word to me as many times as it came out of my mouth, and especially without me realizing it.

Sherlock was about twenty feet in front of me. I was gasping loudly, a cramp stabbed me in the side. How on earth does Sherlock keep such an even pace?

Suddenly he jerked into the street, causing a cylcing couple to nearly flip over bikes.

"We need this. It's an emergency," Sherlock commanded, his breathless voice betraying his impossible endurance.

I finally caught up as he was snatching the helmets from the couples hands.

"Thanks. My friend was poisoned!" I tried to explain, but everything was throbbing. My legs my stomach my heart my brain. I tried to say that, but I wouldn't be surprised if a bunch of jibberish fell out instead.

"Eight minutes now," Sherlock informed me, mounting his bike and taking off. I quickly followed suit, even though every bit of my being was screaming at me to stop.

He suddenly took a sharp left and cried out, "Bumpy! Careful!" And then we were going down a flight of stairs and oh God only with Sherlock… I screamed the whole way down and took a slight tumble at the bottom.

Sherlock _is_ smart, he made us wear helmets.

He glanced back, but didn't stop. _This is a sign,_ my body yelled at me, _stop! Stop now!_ But I brought my achy body back up and mounted the frigging bike again, and took off after Sherlock. I pumped as hard as I could to catch back up, but he had gained major lead in that little accident. However the shortcut had taken us to the direct road the hospital was at. I could see it at the end of the street.

Sherlock practically jumped off his bike. He threw it to the ground and was off again, inside the door, before I was even off my bike. He wasn't in my sight anymore but I knew the way down to the morgue very well.

* * *

By the time I got down there, Sherlock was already in the room and the hall was strangely unfilled with medical experts. Nine minutes it took Sherlock and me to get there and the frigging EMTs couldn't make it down a couple flights of stairs to her.

"Sherlock!" I called out, about to walk through the door to Molly's lab, but I heard a hoarse shout, "Stay there! I got her..."

Moments later, he stumbled out of the doorway, gasping for air.

"C...CP….." He tried speak but he was literally breathless and got lost in a dry coughing fit.

But I had already straightened Molly's unconscious body out and curled my fingers to begin pumping her chest. Sherlock gasped loudly next to me, with his back against the wall.

"Ah, ah, ah, staying aliiiive..." I muttered to myself, after I gave two rescue breaths but lost the tempo of the compressions. I sent a quick mental shout out to my CPR training teacher who told that technique.

"Wah… why would…." Sherlock tried to speak again, but the words got lost in coughing.

A minute passed and I knew I wouldn't be giving her all that needed for oxygen anymore, but Sherlock wasn't in a state to keep over, so I kept going. Where were the medics? They should have _definitely_ been here by now.

"Where-" ah, "Are-" ah, "The medics," staying aliiiive, I choked out the question, keeping the song internal this time, trying to keep the beat with my tiring arms.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but took a shuddering breath, and stood up, presumably to go physically get them, but the elevator at the end of the hall began to ding, marking the levels of floors it passed, thankfully for Sherlock because he wasn't very steady on his feet at the moment. He leaned against the hall, probably hoping against all hope like me, that it was the medics finally arriving.

It was.

They came flooding down the hall, that seemed terribly massive to me now, as I felt like I've gone terribly small in my exhaustion to keeping CPR up for over three minutes, after running at full speed, and becoming a professional dirt biker…. let's forget the itsy bitsy wipeout I had- in that moment I truly did. I couldn't even feel the pain of the road burn at the moment.

"Poisoned air in the lab!" I yelled out to the first one on the scene. I was so tired I couldn't even process their reaction to it.

But I kept going till a man tapped my shoulder. I fell back on my butt, letting him takeover, and scooted away to where Sherlock was, who I found fighting an oxygen mask.

"Sherlock. Take it," I commanded, though weakly, and I leaned back against the same wall that held Sherlock's back. To my surprise, he did, and the guy tending to him brought the strap around his head so it'd hold without someone physically holding it. He did indeed look ridiculous!

"I should take a picture. Sherlock Holmes, accepting help!" I gasped out jokingly, though I didn't make a move to actually do it.

He only took a couple more deep breaths before ripping it off.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm fine," He said, though very breathlessly. "I used to smoke, remember? Or not. I can't think right now to remember whether you know..." His voice was strained and he couldn't finish the sentence without putting the mask back on for a moment.

"You are so convincing, Sherlock," I replied/mumbled, but he understand nonetheless. I leaned my head back against the wall and peered over at him through lidded eyes.

He made a vague gesture with one of his hands, I probably should be glad I wasn't paying attention to it.

Dark thoughts flitted through my sluggish mind.

"Is this the same person that drugged John?" I asked him, looking him dead in the eye, as much as I could from my position,

"He is..." Sherlock huffed out, gasping for air, "He is testing me. To see how far I'd go for..." He didn't finish, instead he put his head between his knees and breathed heavily, but I knew how the sentence would finished. Whoever had it out for Sherlock was seeing how far he'd go for the people he cared about. "And now you're on his radar. He texted you this time."

I stayed quiet, wondering what exactly that meant. It was then they carried Molly's lifeless body away on a gurney, the same breathing mask around her face.

We didn't say anything. I don't think either of us knew what to say yet.

"You're bleeding," he mentioned, after a couple more puffs of air.

"I wiped out on my landing after the stairs," I admitted, sheepishly. I skinned off most of my left arm. It burns like hell now. "Looks worse than it is."

"No, it's not," Sherlock stated, his eyes intently on my face, reading the uncontrollable aspects of it. They definitely contradict my (what was meant to be) reassuring lie.

"You're so annoying, Sherlock," I sighed loudly, rolling my eyes.

"I know," He replied, and the exhausted smile that played at his lips was a sight to behold. With the small smile still on his face, he put the mask back on, and we sat in silence for a couple minutes as the chaos around us ran rampant.

It wasn't long before a medic came over to get our story, and an update on Molly (she was going to be okay). I let Sherlock inhale his air and I explained the whole thing, bringing out my cellphone, and showing her the texts. She wrapped up the road burn on my arm before making us go farther down the hall, knowing the police was coming, and were wanting to ask questions. He gave back the oxygen mask.

We sat in more silence as we waited for my team from the station to come in.

"Damn traffic!" A familiar voice finally bursted into the hall. "Is Molly all right?" I scooted my body around to face the newcomer, to confirm it was Lestrade.

"She'll be okay. Earlier… you did called 999, right?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Yeah, of course I called it in!"

I nodded, indicating I trusted him. "They weren't here, and had only just got the car when they finally did come," I informed him.

Greg's cheeks had puffed up like a chipmunk, but he let it go before speaking again, "Do you think this is the same guy who drugged John?" A hand ran through his graying hair.

"I really don't know," Sherlock croaked in response. Only a slight wheeze when he spoke now, but he'll be fine too. He cleared his throat. "But I think so. Same skip code, sent to Ruth, and we had a timer to get down to Molly. Show the text to him."

I pulled out my phone again and showed the message to Greg. He sighed heavily again.

"Sherlock was saying he was testing him. To see how far he'd go for his… friends," I put in, stumbling over the word. It was still a foreign concept for Sherlock to have a friend, much less friend _s_. "What happened to having no friends, Sherlock?"

"They kind of snuck up on me," he mumbled, looking ashamed.

"It's actually rather amazing. I mean, I remember… trying. Trying to be your friend but you were physically incapable to do so. And now… how many is it? John, Molly-" I began, counting on fingers.

"Mrs Hudson," Greg put in, nodding.

"And _you_ , Lestrade," Greg made a protesting noise, but I ignored it, "Four people you care for. I knew you could do it," I finished lightly, though I never knew. I demonstrated how it could be and hoped, but it ended up happening because of a man named John Watson.

"Quit rubbing it in my face," Sherlock grumbled with a sigh.

"It's a strength, Sherlock, not a weakness. You have people to live for now, to protect, and I think if you had nothing to live for, it'd make the fight impossible," I said thoughtfully. Hopefully one day he'll see his attachments to people that way. John Watson could probably make that happen.

"Amen to that," Lestrade agreed, before excusing himself for a moment.

Sherlock never replied, but we had to wait together to make our statements. I looked at the clock on my phone, and made a surprised noise, catching the attention of Sherlock. Though he was still quiet, his light eyes slid over to mine questioningly.

"It's not even noon!" I answered, showing him the time on his clock. "I feel like I've lived an entire day and then some."

But yet again, Sherlock said nothing in response. It was like he'd suddenly shut down to me, like he'd reach his limit of talking for the day. Maybe just talking to me? Nonetheless I felt like I was talking to a wall, so all conversation ebbed away.

* * *

A little while later, they finally released us to go home. Sherlock and I walked out to the front of the building together, and I automatically looked up at the roof, but I didn't say anything about that.

"You going back to Baker Street? I'll split the fare. I live a couple blocks away, it's on the way," I said, my voice sounding a bit rough. My lungs still ached and hitched every time I breathed. I need to work out more…

He didn't say anything, just signaled a cab, but I took it as a yes.

A couple minutes into another silence, I told him, "I'm a bit rusty. It's been a long time since I've played the game."

"And what game is that?" Sherlock finally spoke again to me.

"Your game. But this time I'm not playing by your rules," I informed him, before staring out the window.

* * *

you guys people faved and followed! I'm so freaking happy. I literally check my email every couple hours to see if anyone has done so. XD I would very much appreciate a review though if you get a moment, let me know how I'm doing :D especially since I'm probably the opposite of British and sometimes I get mad confused with the different sayings and names haha thanks guys! xx Anna


	3. Chapter Two: Real-Not Real

**AN** : y'all's support for this story is incredible! I hope I never disappoint, but please please let me know if I ever venture in that direction! And you know, it'd be pretty cool if you'd let me know I'm NOT venturing in that direction… ;) also we get some John/Ruth interaction next chapter, and Ruth tells stories from high school, so stay tuned for that x Anna

 **Real/Not Real**

My office at the Yard wasn't anything special. I think I might have gotten a room made for a closet, but hey, it's better than nothing. It's got a door that shuts me off from the hustle of the station. It fits my desk and my forensic equipment and the picture frame of Meowfoy and me. I'm set.

It wasn't till Sherlock came back from the dead that it mattered if I had a lock on my door… which I (now) unfortunately don't.

Molly stayed in the hospital for two days before being discharged and sent home for two days of bed rest. Now dead bodies aren't the only things we bond over. We both have a borderline obsession with Johnny Depp movies and Chinese takeout. And ice cream. So. Much. Ice cream. However I'm totally not complaining.

It kind of feels like I'm living in a movie, because movies are the only place in my life where this is normal. Even when I went to the states for uni, I didn't form any kinds of relationships like this with anyone. I hung out in groups, but I was always quiet. I think they tolerated me because I knew all the answers to their homework… and because I had "a cool British accent".

I thought going to America would be a fresh start, but I couldn't get a fresh me. Fresh location, fresh school, fresh people. But same old me.

'Same old me' seemed to be something Molly liked and it was a miracle.

I was quietly humming 'I've Told You Now' by Sam Smith (the things that get stuck in my head!), looking through my microscope at some bloodied ripped clothe when suddenly my door bursted open, causing me to yelp, and knocking over my scope.

"What the hell…!" I shouted, turning to find Sherlock pulling up fancy collars. That dick! "Sherlock! The door was frigging shut for a reason! I'm working." I straightened up my scope and reposition the scrape. I don't think anything was damaged…

"You weren't replying to my texts," He shrugged, striding over to stand beside me. "I need some answers."

"Yes, because I _was frigging working_!" I repeated myself, though I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I turned it on silent so I could focus, but I see now I have eight unread text messages. All from Sherlock.

I opened the first one. "'What is your mother's maiden name?'" I read the text out loud. "'What was your favorite high school teacher?' Sherlock, you're frigging kidding me. Were you trying to break into my email or something?" I asked, my frustration falling flat, because I was genuinely curious for the reasoning.

"No, not your email," he said, scanning the room, taking in my only photo and my forensic things.

"If you're trying to break into my bank account, I've only got like seven pounds in there."

"Nope."

"All right, then what, Sherlock? On all accounts, it's illegal and I work for the bloody police! Or did you 'delete' that from your mind palace?" I asked bitterly, and he finally looked at me with an unreadable expression.

"What do you like?" he suddenly said, locking his eyes with mine.

"W-what?" I stuttered slightly, taken aback from the sudden direct attention he was giving me.

"What kind of things do you like?" Sherlock repeated, pronouncing each word slowly like we had some kind of language barrier rather than me just trying to comprehend why he's asking me this.

"I feel like this is a trick question," I replied slowly, for I was trying to play the game and gain the upper hand here, but there was a flutter of excitement in my stomach at the question. He looked at me like I held the earth in my hands. I weirdly didn't want to disappoint him.

 _Ruth, you idiot, he's still trying to figure out your security questions_. But he doesn't need to know what I like to answer those? It definitely has something to do with that. _Stop, you stupid heart, stop fluttering in my chest like that_.

"Anything that's important to you. What is it?" he insisted, and I took a breath to calm my thoughts.

It's not to answer security questions.

Sherlock's trying to guess my password.

"You… you mean like a password?" I felt slightly deflated. I mean, duh, he wasn't asking questions to get to know me better as a friend or anything. Duh. Keep up, Ruth! You won't win the game this way. "All my passwords are random. My security questions are random too. You've better not locked me out of anything, Sherlock!" I threatened, channeling my stupidness into anger, and pulling up the email app on my phone. "You were bloody trying to hack into my work email!" I yelled, shoving my phone in his face so he could see the emails I got for three unsuccessful attempts to login.

"I needed to-" he began to defend himself, but I cut him off.

"No, you don't _need_ to do anything, but get out!"

"Molly's not in and I need access-"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up," I snapped, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Sherlock was silent for a good ten seconds before, "Molly's so much more easier, and I don't think she cared."

"I'm not Molly, Sherlock! Did you even tell Molly you were in her _work account_?" I sighed then and used my inside voice for my next sentence, as he didn't actually succeed, and what was I going to do about it anyways? "My questions and password are seriously just random things," I huffed out.

"Most of the questions are too personable," Sherlock stated, and my eyes jerked up from my phone to him.

"What?" I choked out, but it was true. How…?

"Everyone hated you at school, your mother married young and you've never met your grandparents, the street you grew up in was where your father overdosed, your uncle on your dad's side-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," I echoed earlier words, but with no force this time. I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips.

"Though I didn't hate you," he said quietly, and for someone who said they 'deleted' me, very matter of fact.

I looked up at him then, feeling rather touched, but it was part of 'The Game' not to engage in compliments.

"However I didn't really _like_ you either… you were always just there," Sherlock added thoughtfully.

 _Part of The Game for this reason._

"You…!" I didn't know what bad word I wanted to throw at him, so I just sputtered that word till he spoke again.

"Okay, maybe we were… acquaintances," he reiterated.

"Sherlock, there was an entire year where I went to your house to study every day after school," I said, rolling my eyes. "Why must you do this?"

"We weren't friends."

"Yes, I know, Sherlock. You've made that very clear. We don't have friends. I was too much of a screw up and you were too much of a cock. Nobody wanted to be near us," I replied in a deadpan voice, trying to cover up a sliver of hurt that sliced my heart. I turned back to my microscope so he couldn't see my face.

But then Sherlock said, "Except _now_ we do..."

"Yeah, yeah, we do..." I wasn't quite sure where he was going with this, so I waited for him to say more.

However he didn't.

I thought of Molly though and how happy it made me that I had a friend… and someone that would call me theirs.

"Look at us now. Who would've thought the weirdo and the sociopath would have friends," I put in with a slight smile.

Sherlock turned away again, looking around my room, remaining silent.

"Well, Sherlock, I really should get..." I began, the air in the room turning awkward

"Whatever it is, it should be something I can get into!" Sherlock suddenly bursted out, cutting me off.

"You're still on that!?" I sighed loudly then, trying to portray how ridiculous I thought he was… but then an idea came to me.

"Tell you what, it's Friday night, I've got nothing in my fridge, and 7 pounds in my bank account. If you can give me a fun time tonight, I'll give you a hint as to how I created my password," I suggested with a grin on my face. I don't know why this idea came to me, perhaps the growl in my stomach was what gave me the inspiration.

"Deal." The words were barely out of my mouth when his reply came.

"Deal?" I squeaked out, my cheeks slightly flushed. I hadn't actually thought the whole thing through. This isn't what I do on Friday nights. This isn't me. 'Me' doesn't have friends and look what I just established with Sherlock...

I guess after years of longing for friendship, it would be the thing to give something I didn't want to give up to.

"Yes."

I cleared my throat, hoping my voice would return to normal. "Do you even know what a good time is?" I asked, trying to play it off, as doubt crept in. God, what was I thinking?

"Of course. Pick you up at 7," Sherlock answered with a nod and promptly left my room.

"Do you even know where I live?" I asked the empty room.

Of course he knows where I live. He's Sherlock frigging Holmes.

What have I gotten myself into?

* * *

"What are you running off too, Ruth? Hot date?" Greg stood next to me as I anxiously waited for the elevator to come up to our floor.

"I'm going out with Sherlock tonight," I answered, surprise still clouding my tone, before realizing what it sounded like.

"What?" He exclaimed, his mouth literally dropping into an 'o'. I thought his eyeballs might fall out at how far they widened.

"It's not like that, it's…" Not wanting to say it was a bet either, I trailed off. The elevator dinged for the level below us, but I suddenly rushed out, "I'll take the stairs. See you tomorrow, Lestrade!"

I checked the time on my phone as I went down the stairs. It was nearly 6 o'clock. The fifteen minute walk to my house put me at about 6:15 to start getting ready. Enough time, right?

Wrong.

Wrongwrongwrongwrong.

It definitely wasn't a date, so I don't have to get all dressed up. But I wasn't hanging out with Sherlock as if he's a friend because he isn't one, so I don't where any of my casual clothes. It was… me wanting free dinner and something to do on a Friday night.

It was 6:53. Sherlock could actually be here any minute. And I was standing in my bra and underwear surrounded by a pile of clothes.

Screw it. At 6:56, I pulled on some dark skinny jeans and a floral blouse. I quickly filled in some eyeshadow on my lid and as careful as time gave me, dragged eyeliner around my eye. I flicked on some mascara and took out my ponytail. I ran a brush through it before sitting down and pulling on ankle boots.

I let out a sigh to release some pressure in my chest, but all it did was attract the attention of my cat. Draco slinked up to my legs and rubbed against them, and at 7 o'clock a buzz filled my room.

I gently kicked him away before standing up. I pulled on my coat, grabbed my purse, and pressed the intercom button to say "Coming!"

Here we go.

* * *

"Hey, Sherlock," I greeted as I shut the building door.

"Oh," was all he said in reply, his eyes scanning my body. I looked down at my outfit… I thought it was a mix between date and not date, but maybe I was wrong.

"Do I need to change?" I asked, trying not to feel self-conscious, but it was pretty inevitable with his eyes on my body.

"You look different," Sherlock said in response, before pointing me to the cab.

"This is what makeup and a good skinny jean will do to you," I replied, motioning to my body. I didn't look at him. My face was burning and I really wanted this conversation to be over.

"And your hair is down. You should do that more often, it makes your ears less noticeable," He told me next, and I felt a bit less embarrassed then. Sherlock was insulting me, back on track.

"Thanks," I deadpanned, sliding into the back of the cab. He climbed in next to me and we settled into a silence, but I wanted to know what we were doing. "So, Sherlock Holmes, what's your definition of a fun night?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil it, now would I?" he mumbled. He looked down between his long legs, that actually looked comical scrunched up in the back seat of the cab.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," I leaned in and loudly spoke in his ear, due to the way he spoke more quietly. Oh, this was another reason why no one liked me in school. I was so annoying.

"I had my voice lowered in respect to the cabbie," Sherlock muttered back to me, but the quick glance he gave to the man sitting up front made me feel like he was trying to hide something from him instead.

"Don't worry about it, mate. Now miss, I know he doesn't look like a romantic, but they're normally the hopeless kind. I feel yer' in for a treat," Cabbie said, catching my eye through the review mirror.

There goes my blush again.

"Oh, it's not really a date," I stuttered, wanting to be as far away from that word as possible.

"I'm just trying to get information from her but giving her something she wants," Sherlock explained.

"Not sex," I blurted and I was pretty sure little piles of flames were actually burning on my face now. I put my face in my hands in shame.

Sherlock stiffened next to me. The thought had never occurred to him, but it did me? Why. Whywhywhywhy. "No… not sex," he confirmed, side glancing at me.

"Oh, well… good. My apologies," Cabbie replied, and he didn't speak again the rest of the ride. He pulled over in front of a small bed and breakfast, connecting to a restaurant. Not what I was expecting, but I was totally okay with it.

"Thanks!" I called to up front of the car as we slid out and into the street. Sherlock paid the tab and I followed him inside.

"Sherlock Holmes!" A pot bellied man bellowed at us before heat could warm my chilled bones.

"Peter," Sherlock greeted curtly, with a small nod.

"And you brought your girl! Date night! Brilliant. It's on the house tonight. Anything on the menu, anything at all!" Peter bellowed again. I wasn't sure if he was capable at speaking lower at this point.

"I'm not-" I began, but Sherlock cut me off.

"This is Ruth Laurie. It's our four month anniversary," he introduced me, wrapping his arm around my back.

What the heck. I gaped up at Sherlock. He shot me a look back, slightly shaking his head.

"Well done, well done! You chose well. Here, let me show you to your seat," Peter directed us to the a table in the far corner. Sherlock sat so he was facing the room. I sat facing the corner.

"Enjoy your meal, and let me know if you need anything, _anything_ at all," he said, before giving a slight bow and walking away.

"What the _hell_ is going on, Sherlock?" I hissed through my teeth once he was out of ear shot.

"You wanted a fun night, so this is it," he answered, a look of innocence playing across his face.

"Acting as if I'm 'your girl' is what you think my definition of a fun night is? What kind of sick joke-well, sorry to disappoint you-" I was so mad at him right now I couldn't speak clearly.

A look of confusion had formed on Sherlock's face before he let out a chuckle.

"I won," I said angrily and I began to stand, hoping I don't drop anything that would kill the dramatic exit I was about to give.

"No, wait! Wait, Ruth, that's not why I asked you here. God, you should have seen your face!" Sherlock laughed again, but he'd grabbed my wrist to keep me from going, so I was stuck. His voice dropped to a whisper, "I'm on a case. He's the one who asked me to look into the murder of his wife. However I'm nearly convinced _he_ did it, but I have my suspicions of an accomplice."

I slowly sat back down and he dropped my arm. "Then why am I here?"

"You wanted a fun night, right? What's more fun than a real life murder mystery?" Sherlock asked me and the glint of genuine excitement threw me for a moment. I've never seen Sherlock with so much passion for something.

"And I'm your girlfriend?"

"Why else would I be with a girl on a Friday night?"

"Okay… okay," I began slowly, warming up to the idea. "What's the plan for tonight?"

* * *

My night was a real life game of Clue and it was definitely one for the books. Free food, sneaking around like a spy, and finding evidence to pin the murder on the Bellow Fellow, that stemmed from his affair with the chef.

I know there was a death, and that's sad, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins and the smile plastered across my face… this was Sherlock's life now. Why did I go into forensics and not CIA spy?

I know Sherlock was there with me, but I keep replaying the night by randomly exclaiming, "Do you remember when Peter bursted into the room and I was hiding behind the door?" or "Did you see the chef throw a frigging knife at my head?" on and on for the ten minute cab ride back to apartment. I just kept going, despite the growing smirk on his face.

The cab parked out front my apartment and my mood dropped a little bit. I might have just lived through a real life Clue, but I had to get back to real life real life.

Sherlock walked me to the door and paused expectantly.

"Thanks, Sherlock, for this night… I know dead bodies were involved, but I've never felt more alive," I admitted with a sigh.

"So, you had a fun night?"

"Yes!"

"That means I win, right? Your password?"

"I-" my mood hit the ground. I'd completely forgot about that. _The game, Ruth, you're always playing a game with him_. "No, no! The deal was a hint." If he felt my adrenaline drop back to below normal, he didn't, he didn't show it.

Sherlock sighed loudly and made a motioning noise for me to go on.

"It's whatever my recent obsession is. A random word from it," I finally answered.

"Recent obsession?" he questioned, but I smiled.

"TV show, song, book. It's completely random. Perhaps if you somehow figured out what I was reading, watching, AND listening to the particular day I created my account, you'd… really not get much because I can keep up with multiple books, TV, and I'm constantly listening to music."

"That's how… that's how I can't break into your account?"

"Yup."

"If I take you out again, can I get another hint?" Sherlock asked, hopefully, and my heart drop. Is that what he thought about the entire night?

I thought about it for a moment, thinking about how that made me feel. I couldn't do it again if there was strings attached. I wanted to figure out how to break that wall, like John Watson did. I want to figure out how to be his friend and if he's holding something over me, he's winning the game. I just got to figure out how to get him to stop holding friendship over my head and actually want to give it to me...

"Nope." This time he deflated a little bit. "Molly will be back at work tomorrow, but I'm telling her to change her passcodes tonight. Pester her for it."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Thanks again," I said, trying to put out how much tonight really meant to me, but trying to put out that it did mean something to me. This is tiring, always calculating.

"Ruth," he said my name in farewell. I used my key card and entered my building, and he turned around and went back to the cab.

I stood in the hall for a moment, but I knew I needed to go up to my apartment.

Meowfoy was waiting for me.


	4. Chapter Three: Before-After

**AN:** when the chapter you've been working on for weeks mystery disappears from your laptop ughhh this is going to be a bit different than originally planned because truthfully I don't remember what I originally wrote haha anyways thanks for all the support! I hope I keep on not disappointing y'all!

Self-harm mentioned in this chapter… and also the next chapter that I already have written, so hurry up and review, so I can post it already xx

 **Before/After**

Maybe the next day was Sherlock's day off, or he didn't feel the need to pester anyone at the station, but I made it to the freedom of my day off without seeing him, though I woke up around 8am to him blowing up my phone again.

Not that I didn't have a good time with him, but having good times and then not having good times were part of the game, and I didn't want to play by the rules, so therefore I had to think out my next interaction with Sherlock.

I couldn't just try to be his friend or anything like John, nooo, because I already tried that and failed. I just wish I knew John's secret.

Truthfully, my days off generally consisted of me sleeping till 8am, cuddling with Draco till 9am, and then raiding my fridge for leftover takeout for breakfast for preparation of after all of this being done, I plant my butt on my couch and watch Netflix till it was dinner time and I order fresh take out.

But this morning at a little before 8, my phone received so many texts in the span of one minute, it sounded like my phone was vibrating as it counted down to an explosion. The vibrations disrupted the air, sending waves to where I was sleeping, successfully waking me up and annoying my cat so much he left me.

"Ughhh," I groaned to myself, reaching my hand out to the abyss that was not my bed and my cat, and pulled my phone off it's charger. I rolled unto my back and held the phone a foot from my face to see what it's deal was.

Five unread texts from Sherlock Holmes. Oh, boy.

 _Where are you?_

 _There is a dead body, you should be here. You're late._

 _Lestrade has informed me it is your day off._

 _Tell me it isn't true._

 _OH GOD YOU LEFT ME WITH ANDERSON  
_

I read through the texts quickly, groaning outwardly, but my heart fluttered excitedly. Damn you, heart! I sighed, squinting at the screen. My fingers plucked a response back, drawing it out to two texts.

 _I'm sleeping_

 _Leave me alone_

But despite my reply, his response was immediate and ignored what I just said.

 _His idiocy will contaminate the evidence._

 _Your_ idiocy will contaminate the evidence, I thought to myself grumpily, but I texted back something else.

 _Be nice._

His texts in reply yet again disregard what I previously said, so I don't know why I keep it going.

 _At least you don't speak. He never shuts up!_

 _He's got it all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

I rolled my eyes at the phone and sat up to reply, dragging my response into three texts to him.

 _You're such a big baby_

 _Let him do his job. I have a right to a day off and he has a right be at a crime scene_

 _If you hate him so much then leave_

It took a couple minutes for him to reply to that and I actually thought I'd finally shook him. Groaning again, I flung my feet off the bed and stood up, making my way to the kitchen to scavenge the fridge, but my phone vibrated in my hand as I walked.

 _But murders where the husband or the maid he's sleeping with don't do it are so much fun._

I clicked my tongue. It's a wonder how he's kept his small group of friends if things like this come from his mouth. I sent my last texts to him before shutting off my phone and putting cold leftovers in the microwave.

 _I feel like I should delete that text from my inbox, Sherlock..._

 _I am going to eat leftover Chinese food and I'm shutting off my phone_

 _Because it's my day off and you're a piece of work_

 _If there are dead bodies that aren't murdered by the husband or the maid he's sleeping with tomorrow, I'll see you there_

How was that for not playing the game? Pounding heart and shaking hands, you shut up…

* * *

Later that evening, I turned on my phone, secretly wishing it'd be overwhelmed with texts from Sherlock, but alas it was not. I had one text from Molly though and it was enough to make me smile. After I left college in the states and began at a police department in the city, my phone didn't vibrate with texts or calls, other than ones telling the location of where my forensic abilities were needed. Even before I left uni, my 'friends' had constantly complained about me never replying, and when my mother died in my last year there didn't even seem to be a point in keeping up with physically speaking to them.

I failed my mother in high school and wasn't able to allow her to live through me, so I thought I'd try a bit harder in university… but I failed my mother in a different way when I decided to leave her. Three and a half years of coming home during break left me coming home in the middle of year because my mom slashed her wrists late one night. Essentially in trying to save myself, I killed my mother.

Sitting curled on my couch, with Draco in my lap, I tried to shake off the dark thoughts that suddenly overcame me. I reread Molly's text of 'are you free Friday night? There is a Johnny Depp movie in existence that our eyes haven't seen and it's in theaters this weekend', trying to find comfort in the fact there was someone out there that wanted to do something with me, and that there was a new Johnny Depp movie that my eyes could watch. Since I now have more than 7 pounds in my bank account, I was mostly excited to say yes. The small part of me that was not fell around the dull ache in my chest that used to remind me that I was, indeed, alive, and it never really went away.

I set my phone back on the coffee table and I clicked 'yes' to the most annoying question ever from Netflix: are you still watching this show?

And I kept watching till Netflix asked me the question again.

* * *

There were no murders by noon the next day that the husband or the maid didn't do, and therefore, all my peeking through my blinds in my office, were for nothing. However the day was still young and there was still hope for an interesting murder.

Oh God, I was starting to sound like Sherlock…

A little after 12pm, I walked a block from the station to a little sub shop on the corner. I placed my order for a chicken and cheese sandwich and looked around for a place to sit, however being peak time, there were no empty seats. I stood awkwardly to the side, but seeing the amount of people in the room, worried it might take a while.

It wasn't long before I heard my name being called, though, and I searched around for the culprit, though my heart had already dropped at not recognizing the voice.

"Ruth!" A man called my name, and stood up in the back corner of the shop. The sandy hair and the short build was easily recognizable once I saw the owner of the voice.

"Hi, John!" I smiled, giving a short wave as I made my way over to him. "It's good to see you again."

"You on your lunch, too?" He asked, his own face folding into a smile. I nodded and he waved his hand in front of him. "Sit. I won't be here too much longer and truthfully I'd like to get to know the girl Sherlock is so fond of." John paused before adding, thoughtfully, "Not that he'd admit he was fond of you, but you seemed to have made a bit of impact in his schoolboy years."

I sat in front of him and pulled at my fingers nervously under the table. I know I've thought a lot about John Watson over the past days, but to be sitting across the legend himself was a different story. "Yeah, I kind of did, though he'd deny that as well," I replied, my voice slightly betraying my nerves. "However it goes both ways… I was the poor kid on scholarship. I was just equally outcasted for my lack of money as Sherlock was outcasted for his lack of empathy. And humanity. And knowing when to stick his nose in something..."

John chuckled. "Sounds like he hasn't changed much since you've known him."

"So it would seem, but there are little things that suggest otherwise," I replied, shrugging slightly.

"Like what?" John asked, his eyebrows furrowing as he waited for my answer.

"Well, you, for one," I watched as his eyebrows rose at those words. "During the few years I knew him, during the time I spent all I could at his house, sitting in his kitchen, talking to his mother, and all the hours we spent studying in the corner of the library, and all he found out about me, and my parents… in all that time, he refused to call me his friend and made it clear he could not be mine."

"I'm sorry, Ruth, that-" his voice was gentle, but I couldn't take it. It wasn't all Sherlock.

So I shrugged again. "You've found the trick and that's good. Maybe if I had stuck around, maybe if the things that happened to me… didn't happen, I could have been you. But I was not. Equally as he refused to call me his friend and made it clear he could not be mine, I realized I was just as incapable. The difference was I tried anyway, just to try to fulfill the need I had to have a friend."

"Well, I do think he probably had the same need and like all the other things he won't admit, he thought of you as a friend," John said, rubbing his ear. He looked off behind me, a little lost in thought.

"I don't know. Maybe if he's actually acknowledging to people we went to school together..." I trailed off, trying to not have this conversation turn too serious.

"He hasn't quite done that yet," he replied, slightly grimacing.

"Well." I gestured my hand in a 'there you go' movement.

"So, he was just as arrogant and rude… distant back then? There wasn't some defining moment that made him that way?" John wondered out loud before downcasting his eyes. "Sorry I don't often wonder this anymore, but I just think about why."

I remained silent, thinking about his question. I thought about Sherlock's fight to keep up with his brothers, how stiff his shoulders got when the other kids said unkind words to him, or the tips of his ears when his teachers chided him in front of everyone, and that one time he fell to his knees in tears due to a family trauma, finally displaying the broken boy he hid so well.

"I think he was on the brink of changing when I knew him. He- I- uhhh..." I stopped speaking, remembering my promise to keep Sherlock's secrets. His secrets of how badly his bullies truly affected him, of his fight to be out of his brothers shadows, and of what eventually happened to his oldest brother. "Yeah, I'd say there was a defining moment."

"I have a feeling you're going to leave it at that," John commented, quirking his face in defeat.

"Yup," I answered, nodding with a small smile. It was silent after that as John took in all I told him, but his thoughts, and mine, were interrupted when his phone went off.

"Pardon me, Ruth, I'm sorry," John said, digging his phone out of his pocket. His face scrunched in confusion and he answered the phone… it wasn't long till his confusion turned into horror. "I'll be right there," he told whoever was on the phone, before turning back to me, "Sherlock was in an accident."

And I once again found myself running out a building and frantically trying to find a means of transportation to St. Barts because of Sherlock… just this time it wasn't him I was doing it with, but for.


	5. Chapter Four: Internal-External-Scars

AN: sorry, I'm craving blueberry muffins really bad, I know it's kind of random… I wrote this for later on in the story, but it didn't really add up to the time-line I created, so I changed a couple things, and here it is now.

Self-harmed mentioned in this chapter.

 **Internal/External/Scars**

This time, instead of an adventurous bike ride through the city, John was able to hail a cab, though thanks to traffic, we didn't get there much sooner than the time I ran with Sherlock.

I trailed behind John, uncertain of my way in the higher floors of St. Bart's hospital, and it wasn't long that John used his doctor skills to get all the information out of a nurse, that it had just been a cut and dry car accident. I shared a look with John… basic car crashes don't just happen to Sherlock Holmes.

But when it comes down to it, Sherlock was just a basic human, and basic human things did happen to him… it just seemed too normal, in the midst of all that is happening right now.

I didn't say as much to the nurse or John, but I think the two of us did silently agree to not make assumptions till we spoke with Sherlock. At least if John didn't silently agree to it, then I definitely silent agreed with myself.

We stood outside of the room they told us was Sherlock, and I noticed the door was slightly ajar. No doubt he knew we were here, and it was a minute longer before John got all the answers he needed, and we pushed through the door.

Sherlock still looked very much alive, which was a major relief walking through the door. Small cuts and bruises adorned his face, but things that would fade away with time, unlike the scars I have hidden on my body. He was stiff and clearly didn't like being where he was, and that's what made me realize there was something deeper, and that was the thing keeping him bed bound.

"I'm flattered the two of you came rushing to my side, however I'm very curious why Ruth is here," Sherlock asked a question without really asking anything, his eyes following my movement into the room. "As John is a known emergency contact and Ruth isn't anywhere near one."

"I ran into him at the sub shop," I answered with a shrug, ignoring the stinging around the edges of my heart. "And I don't know why, but I care whether you live or die, so I came along to make sure it wasn't the latter."

"Ruth's been telling me all your secrets," John put in with a joke, trying to diffuse the situation, though there were still remnants of worry evident on his face. However those choice of words caused Sherlock's eyes to widen in panic.

"Not those secrets, Sherlock- not like real secrets," I quickly clarified, causing John to shoot me a look, and Sherlock's shoulders to droop with relief. However the thoughts brewing in John's eyes made me wish I had also chosen different words.

"So, there are secrets from your childhood you're purposely keeping from me… Great. Good," John said, with a sarcastic nod to match his voice.

I literally winced at the tone, like it was directed at me, while Sherlock just shrugged. Before he could say what he'd opened his mouth to say, I butted in with, "That came out wrong, John. I meant like…" but I couldn't find the untrue words of what I meant.

"I was really starting to like you, Ruth, and then you go on being just like Sherlock. I see what you meant earlier," John replied his voice hard and his words hurting more than Sherlock's previous ones.

"Please, John. That's offensive to me. Ruth feels too much and is way too sensitive to be anything like me. I mean, look at her face. You hurt her _feelings_ just now," Sherlock finally spoke, weakly pointing at me, "She's about to cry."

And I was. I opened my mouth to try to deny it, but my throat caught instead, and it was John's turn to wince this time.

"Ruth, I'm sorry. I was-" John began apologizing, but I just shook my head and left the room. I let the door swing shut, hoping that ended that, but unfortunately I had the older living hurtfulness blocking my way from leaving.

Mycroft Holmes was walking at a brisk pace towards Sherlock's door, as I was slamming it shut. I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes, hoping against hope Myc wouldn't mention them like his brother.

"Well, look who it is. Ruth Laurie," Mycroft drawled with a smirk on his face. "If you're running out of Sherlock's room in tears, he's going to be okay."

I ignored his comment, but equally tried to annoy him. "It's been a while, Myc."

He narrowed his eyes at me and a smirk grew on my face. He hated to be called Myc. He only tolerated it from his mother.

"I was wondering how long it'd be before our paths crossed again, Ruth Ann," Mycroft replied, pulling out my first and middle name, the name _I_ hated to be called. I totally walked right into that one, I'll admit it. "I, of course, knew the second your plane touched down in London."

"I always thought you'd grow up and be a stalker," I said with an affirming nod, but truthfully the talk of my early days back in London weren't ones I want to discuss. I didn't up and decide to come back one day. I actually never wanted to return to London, but I had gotten a little… nudge, one that was more of a shove.

"Ruth," Mycroft paused, as if trying to grasp the absurdity of my statement, "Most people would take the next nineteen years after secondary school to mature and grow. It is clear you have not."

But I didn't reply, as a knot had formed in my chest. Sherlock was the only one I knew when I first came back, and he didn't care enough to ask _why_ I'd come back, so I kind of pushed the situation under a rug. Standing so close to the "British Government" brought all those worries back.

Suddenly there was a shout from inside Sherlock's room.

"Perhaps you should go break that up," I said in response instead.

Mycroft sighed loudly, "They fight like an old married couple," before giving me a curt nod, "Ruth."

He disappeared through the door and I hurried down the hall.

* * *

Despite the incident at the hospital, I knew I should go visit Sherlock as he recovers.

Everyone knows where Sherlock Holmes lives. But it took me about three and a half days to convince myself to go over there after seeing him at the hospital. I knew Sherlock would find it silly, but I baked blueberry muffins to bring him anyways.

I stood there awkwardly outside of 221B Bakers Street, after ringing and waiting for someone to open the door. After a couple minutes, I rung again. I wasn't surprised when Mrs Hudson opened the door.

"Oh, hello, dear. I'm sorry Sherlock isn't taking clients right now," She began before dropping her voice, "He's had a bad accident! But will resume normal business hours next week."

"Oh, I know, Mrs Hudson- right, it's Mrs Hudson? I'm a… friend of Sherlock's. I'm Ruth Laurie. I work for the Yard and I just wanted to check in on him," I explained, and then I lifted my tin of muffins. "I made him these, though I know he won't show any appreciation for them, but I know one day he'll look back and realized just how touched he was by my muffins."

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows with a small smirk. "Sounds like you do know Sherlock. He's up in his flat," She relented, motioning up the flight of stairs behind her.

"Thank you. It was nice to meet you, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock has talked about you," I smiled and followed the entry way and direction her extended arm guided me.

"Oh, I'm sorry he hasn't mentioned you, love, but that's-"

"Just Sherlock, I know. Unless he's been complaining about how infuriating the new forensic specialist is," I joked, but Mrs Hudson's eyes did light up.

"Oh! Actually, Sherlock has talked about you then. I don't believe half the stuff, don't worry," She replied, with a wave of her hand meant to comfort me.

"Great," I mumbled to myself, but I smiled again, continuing up the stairs.

The door to Sherlock's flat was, unfortunately, shut so there was no knowing if he would ever answer the door if I knocked, but that I did.

I counted to sixty before giving him a dose of his own medicine, and opening the door.

Sherlock sat on the left side of the room, in a worn leather chair. His legs were straightened halfway across the floor and his eyes were dead shot ahead of him, staring at seemingly nothing. Other than a few cut and bruises, nothing again seemed amiss with him. The only indication he noticed my presence was the way his hands visibly squeezed the arm rests.

"Hey, Sherlock," I said, lifting my pan in greeting, "I brought you blueberry muffins."

"Why?" He asked, completely stone-faced. I nearly missed his lips moving the word was so brief.

"Because, Sherlock, it's what you do. I'm sure you already have- ah!" I walked over to his kitchen to find the piles of food people have already brought him, filling up his dining table and kitchen tops.

"The door was shut, typically meaning do not enter," Sherlock said in the same, dead tone.

"That's never stopped you," I replied, turning around. His gaze was still somewhere off in the distance. "I just… know John hasn't been around much and I wanted to check up on you."

His whole body finally moved as he sighed in annoyance. "Well, take a gander," he slightly snapped at her, spreading his arms wide, in a bitter invitation to give him a once over.

"Sherlock," I thought I was beginning a sentence with his name, but when I went to stand in front of him, all my words faltered. His eyes took hold of mine, defiantly, waiting for me to continue. So he could no doubt tear apart every single word I said. "Nevermind. Can I just sit here with you? You're not consulting this week and it's been a long day with out you there."

"I thought I was normally the cause of your long day," He put in, resting his hands on the armrest again. I took that as permission to sit down in a worn out recliner.

"That's what I thought till you weren't there to take the blame for it," I admitted with a sigh, relaxing against the back of the chair, and pulling out the pillow I sat on. I cuddled it to my chest.

He smirked ever so slightly, but didn't say anything else, and silence overtook us. It wasn't a silence to complain about though… it was a comfortable silence. A companionable one.

Sherlock winced at the small movement of his shoulder and he immediately clammed back up, causing me to sigh inwardly, but I chose to comment on his shoulder like his demeanor hadn't changed. "Is your back hurting you?"

He shrugged and grumbled, "Pulled it doing something or the other."

"Or you hurt it in your car accident. That, too, maybe," I put in, before standing up.

I made way over him, causing his eyes to widen slightly. "What are you doing?" he asked sounding disgusted at my advance towards him.

"I'm going to massage it, trust me, it'll make it feel better. Take off your shirt," I commanded, but while he looked resigned to the massage, he gave a firm 'no' to the last command.

I shrugged, trying not to feeling miffed. "Whatever." I leaned over the back of the chair and placed my hands on either side of his shoulder.

Sherlock tensed up so suddenly, I immediately pulled my hands away. "Did that hurt?"

He shook his head, his dark curls bouncing. "No," he muttered, but I didn't ask why he was so tense.

I put my hands back on his shoulders and began gently rubbing them till the tension fell away. Sherlock leaned forward, his chin resting on his chest. I brought my hands down his back very slowly, barely hesitating over the first long bumps of skin I came in contact with, though it startled me.

"Does that hurt?" I barely breathed the words as Sherlock gave a jerk of his head, _no_. I continued to the small of his back, before he finally winced again. "Now that hurt," I grinned briefly, though he couldn't see. The smile fell away though, my mind on the lumps on his back. My hands softly rubbed the tender spot, as I thought about them. They felt like… scar tissue.

"What are they from?" I finally asked after a couple minutes of silence. Sherlock tensed up again and I let my hands fall away, with a small sigh. I came around look at his face, though he refused to look at me. "They're nothing to be ashamed of, Sherlock."

"Those two years weren't a vacation," He finally answered, his voice harsh. "If I wasn't already a freak… let's just add beast to it," He sighed this time, resting his chin on his balled up hands.

I stood there in shock for a second. For someone so smart…! "Sherlock, scars don't make you a beast!" I cried in horror that he thought that.

"They've already been saying it," Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, and it took me a second to understand who 'they' were. Scotland Yard. I've witnessed it first hand, though even if he was talking about other people what I was about to say still applied.

The words… the mean words of other people still get to him.

"Sherlock, you are rude and impolite, and socially awkward, and you don't understand human nature... but they are just being mean when they call you 'monster' or 'freak'. Sociopath or psychopath, whatever label you or someone else deems you, you are definitely all around human," I tried to finish my rant, but he cut me off.

"You just said I don't have human nature-"

"Listen to what I'm saying, Sherlock! This is very important and you're letting your idiotic side show. I said you don't _understand_ human nature, but you surely have it," I corrected him. I bent down in front of him and made him look me in the eyes. "I've seen you have it. You just don't know how to use it well."

"They're still right ugly and deformed, apparently, as you felt it through my shirt," Sherlock finally said, after a long moment of intense eye contact, jumping back to the scars.

"How did you get them?" I asked, carefully. I had no idea whether he'd answer me.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to play it off. "Oh, I don't know. I was whipped like a racing horse once or twice, a couple times I was carved into like Christmas ham..."

I tried not to wince in sympathy, but I was sure I failed. Sherlock doesn't take sympathy well, but he didn't react to it. "Why?"

"I suppose because I never hold my tongue," He answered slowly, like he was trying to figure out the right response to my question.

"But how did you get there, what were you doing?" I persisted, and a look came across his face as he tried out a different answer.

"I was infiltrating one of Moriaty's connections," he said, almost cautiously. He didn't seem to like that he was giving the wrong answer to my questions. It was rather amusing, actually.

"But why were you there?"

"To protect John! My friends! Molly, Lestrade!"

"That doesn't sound very freak-like, or someone who doesn't have human nature," I stated, finally getting to my point. "That actually sounds kind of hero-like?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked from mine, and he didn't say anything.

"These are war scars," I whispered.

I straightened up and slowly went behind him again. His shoulders were unsurprisingly tense, but I didn't try to roll them out. Instead I slowly slid my hands down his back and gently pulled at his shirt, and soon his shirt tails were popping out.

He didn't tell me to stop, or give any indication he wanted me to, so I yanked his shirt up, midway his back, and anxiously eyed the yellowing bruise that was causing him so much pain, before rubbing down his back like I was over his shirt.

"I have them too," I announced quietly and suddenly. "I've never told anyone and you never figured it out. It was the only secret I could keep."

My hands dropped from his back and he didn't move. I stared straight into his dark hair and I recited something that I found around Tumblr somewhere:

" _They'll check your arms,_

 _Not your thighs,_

 _They're check your smile,_

 _But not your eyes,_

 _They'll avoid the truth,_

 _And believe the lies._

You knew about my father and what he did to my family, Sherlock, and you knew, for the most part, what he did to me… but you never knew what I did to myself," I told him very quietly. "I don't think you would have understood then, but I think you'd understand now."

"I do," he answered, barely a breath.

I brought my hands back up to his shoulders and leaned slightly against him. I closed my eyes, taking in the moment.

If only this was the Sherlock Holmes I knew back then...


	6. Chapter Five: Friends-Friends

**AN:** blag sorry it's been forever! I've either got super hooked on TV shows (Gilmore Girls Revival, Dirk Gently, The OA, Sense8, and I'm forever watching X-Files and Dexter...) or I've been working an insane amount of hours, but the premiere of Sherlock last Sunday has inspired me. It's not going to be my favorite episode or anything, but I'm still mad excited for this season and incorporating Ruth into the story eventually. I just got to get through season 3, eh? And thanks to an unexpected snow day (freaking 12 inches!) this gets posted today!

 **Friends/Friends**

My hand slid from Sherlock's shoulders to his arm and I gave him a squeeze, before walking back in front of him. He stared straight in front of him, looking deep in thought. I glanced back over to the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next.

"If you leave the food out, it'll go bad, Sherlock," I finally spoke again, but he didn't reply. I sighed loudly, half-heartedly making a big fuss about it. "I'll put it away."

I went back into the kitchen when he didn't object. Who knew what was going on in that funny little brain of his. I put my muffins and two trays of cookies on the table, and opened the fridge to put three of the casseroles away, one in hand. Thankfully only one in hand for I promptly dropped it with a shriek, causing a food explosion across the floor, completely startled by the shriveled lump of an internal organ just chilling on a metal rack.

"Oh, don't mind the liver. It was an experiment I was doing before the accident. I suppose I forgot about it… actually, take it out, I want to see it," Sherlock piped up from the living room, interest clouding his voice.

I pushed a hand against my mouth, slamming the door shut, and turned to face him. "I take it all back, all the nice things I said. You are a freak." Though I said the words jokingly, despite the bile at the back of my throat. He never ceases to surprise me, ever.

He let out a slow chuckle, though rigid to not move his sore back so much.

"I don't really care anymore if the food goes bad. I don't really care if you ever eat again, for I know for a fact I don't think I ever will," I added with a shiver down my spine. "Broom and pan?"

"How should I know? I just shout for Mrs Hudson and she cleans it up, while yelling how she's not my maid."

"You are truly the worst," I replied, rolling my eyes. I searched his pantry and his hall closet, finding things that fall under never ceasing to surprise, and ended up walking down to Mrs Hudson, and asking for the broom and pan. I one upped Sherlock by actually walking down to ask her for it, rather than allowing him to shout from his chair.

After a wish from Mrs Hudson that I'd be a positive influence on Sherlock, I cleaned up the mess, and decided to put one casserole in the oven for dinner. And I made Sherlock promise he'd ask his landlady up for the meal and then I told him I was taking home the last casserole and a couple cookies for all my hard work. Especially since if you ate anything that was put in that fridge, you'd probably die.

"Well, it's been fun, Sherlock, but my cat's been home alone most the day and is no doubt very lonely," I finally announced as the aroma of chicken casserole overtook the flat. I gathered the food I was taking with me and returned to the living room, standing there with an air of finality.

"That's a thing one does not usually admit out loud," he said, meeting my eyes, though the connection didn't last for long as I rolled mine.

"The massage… it, uh, felt good."

I smiled and replied, knowing he would never actually thank me, "You're welcome." I began walking to the door before adding, "I can't be a John, Sherlock, but I can be a Ruth if that counts for something." My back was still turned to him because I didn't want to see his face.

"It does."

My back being turned to him also hid my silly grin, though I just opened the door and left with out another word.

* * *

Five days later I found myself at a crime scene where the husband, or the maid he was sleeping with, didn't murder anyone. Lestrade had contacted Sherlock to come and he went over to tell me, with a sly expression on his face.

"So by the way… how was that hot date of yours with Sherlock?" Greg asked, though I squatted next to a body of a late thirties women. I slowly straightened myself, noticing how Donovan's eyes, from across the room, cut over to the two of us.

"It wasn't a date. It was a case," I clarified as my mind ran a mile a minute. I had to get off this subject, especially before Sherlock got here.

"I feel like that could be one and the same," Sally put in, pulling away from the conversation she was in and walked over to Greg and me (and the dead body).

"No, no, it wasn't..."

"And then the next time I saw him, he was texting someone. And smiling. It was that Tuesday morning you were off, yeah?" Sally continued, as Lestrade nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, it was," he confirmed, but I shook my head, before the words hit me.

"He was smiling?" The question slipped out, causing my cheeks to blush.

"Wow. Wow. Freak's got himself a girlfriend!" Donovan said in disbelief, but I stiffened up at the nickname.

"Don't call him that," I snapped, my voice dropping from lovesick fool to a low warning in two seconds flat. "Just… stop."

She paused, taken aback from the sudden mood change. "… Freak?"

"Yes, don't call him that," I responded, though it was less forceful this time. No one's ever stood up for Sherlock, nor has he said anything about it to anyone… I didn't want to be questioned, but of course it being Sally Donovan I was going to.

"Why- I mean… yeah, why?"

"I do feel like it's self explanatory why one doesn't want to be called Freak all the time," I replied slowly, trying not to egg her on in this conversation and trying to figure a way out.

"Does it hurt his feelings? I hurt Sherlock freaking Holmes by calling him Freak? Wow, that's rich," Sally laughed, and before I could say anything, Lestrade butted in.

"All right now, Donovan. We get it. Enough," He said, before pushing past us, and I looked behind me to find Sherlock arriving.

A little paler than usual and still a little stiff, but still looking good. I followed Greg over to him.

"Hey, Sherlock," I greeted, intently searching his face for a sign of pain, "How's the back?" His cheek spasmed and I figured it was definitely still hurting him.

"Should you still be in bed, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, but Sherlock just did a jerk of his head _no_.

"I'm fine," He answered, brushing past us, and not saying a single word to me.

Trying not to feel put out, I shared a look with Greg and said, "See? Not a date."

* * *

On my lunch break, I went to my normal sandwich shop, and found it was apparently John Watson's normal sandwich shop too. He sat in the corner, the same table I saw him at the last time. One of his hands gripped a mug and the other gripped a piece of paper, with a pile spread across the table.

I ordered a turkey and cheese sandwich on toasted bread and met John at his table, though he hadn't looked up from his work at least since I walked in.

"Hey."

He glanced up then, I could probably see the words from the papers in his eyes. "Ruth! Thank God," John exclaimed excitedly, before motioning for me to sit, "Sit, sit." He straightened the two piles he had on the table- one presumably the ones he had already read and the others that he still needed to read. The ones he needed to read were a higher pile.

"Well, that wasn't the greeting I was expecting."

"Yeah, well. I feel awful about the whole hospital room thing," He admitted sheepishly, but I just shrugged.

"It's whatever. Trust me, I've been called more offensive things than being told I was just like Sherlock Holmes," I replied, pulling out the chair and sitting on it. And I wasn't mad at him, not at all, but I did want to fix the divide I might have created implying Sherlock was keeping something from him.

"Yeah, well. Still wasn't my finest moment."

"Sherlock doesn't really bring those out in you," I said with a half smile, though I was only half joking.

"He's doing better, yeah? I haven't seen him recently. Been busy with work, and Mary. And the wedding. They're kind of one and the same," John said, with only a twinge of bitterness.

I stilled at the question. "You've been by to see him at the flat, right?"

"Ah, well… no, no, not really."

It saddened me a little bit to think Sherlock's been all alone in his place. He probably doesn't care, but it's sad nonetheless. At least Mrs Hudson is there for him to yell for.

"He's better. He was at a crime scene this morning and he's still a bit sore, but looks better than when I dropped by the flat," I answered, hoping to induce some guilt over his lack of visiting. He looked away, but before he could respond, I blurted, "Okay, listen. I don't know if you're truly busy with work and the wedding, or Mary, or whatever, or if you're mad at him for the things I said. But if it's because I know things-"

"God, Ruth, it's more than that. But yes, some of it, but definitely more than that," John immediately tried to deny, shaking his head, before saying, "Sometimes you're just busy. And you need a break-"

"Of Sherlock? Two years wasn't enough?" I cut in before I thought I should have probably not said anything at all then. He stilled then.

"That...! You… you weren't there for that. Do not talk about that," John snapped back angrily, his breath suddenly coming in short bursts.

I could tell I really angered him then, so I tried to backpedal, though I was slightly glad I'd gotten those words out. "Look, I'm just looking out for Sherlock. It's all I've ever done. He, um… Sherlock, he..." I trailed off, not sure how to say what I wanted to say without giving anything away.

"Just get on with it! I'm tired of these secrets. I'm tired of never knowing. If you're going to keep bringing it up, if it's going to keep being rubbed in my face… just tell me."

"There was this man that Sherlock adored," I finally began, slowly, warming up to my story, "This man could do no wrong in Sherlock's eyes, though wrong was all he did, and just as much as Sherlock loved this man this man loved being adored. He was like a little lackey and the man fell, of course he fell, and took Sherlock to rock bottom with him. The impact of the fall it didn't just end with Sherlock or the man. It hit me. It hit Mycroft. It hit their parents. And that's… that's all I'm going to say."

John was quiet. He leaned back in his seat, his fingers knitted together. "A man?"

"His… family. I-I can't, John. I can't say anymore. I promised him," I said, a pleading note in my tone, though little good would these secrets be if _he's_ back. "Just do a little bit more with him. Bring Mary along. He's your best friend, right? Be his, whether you know what's wrong with him or not. It's suppose to be unconditional, isn't it?"

A long sigh escaped John's lips and he ran a hand down his face. Finally, he leaned forward again, and met my eyes. "God, that man."

"I know," I replied with a huge grin.

"I'm going by tonight, when I get off. I, um, I'm asking him to be my best man at the wedding," he informed me and added, "It was of course always going to be him, but I just… need to figure out how Mary fits in with this. Need to find the new groove. Because it was just him. And then he was dead. And then it was just Mary. And now..."

"It's out there, John, don't worry. He's got me now, too, so… it's not all on you," I said hesitantly. 'Friends' and 'Sherlock' still seem impossible to be said in the same sentence.

"Oh, yeah? How are you two getting off?" John asked me with a faint smile.

"He took me on a case a couple weeks ago, and he's promised me another one. I baked him blueberry muffins. Oh, I saw a liver in his fridge, too. It was kind of wrinkled and gross. And then this morning at work he doesn't say one thing to me, even though I finally stood up to Donovan, so…" I answered with the roll of my eyes.

"Pretty serious, I see," he chuckled, and I laughed.

"Working on the title 'friend', is all," I responded with a shrug.

"Do you think he'd call you that now?" John asked, an unreadable expression suddenly appearing on his face.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think he would."


	7. Chapter Six: Regular-Irregular

**AN:** sorry y'all, I kinda dropped off the side of the earth after that last post! How the heck has it been 9 months since I've posted. How the absolute heck… despite me sucking at life, the support has been incredible and I don't want to let you down. So many things have happened since I last posted like THAT FINALE Y'ALL. Each and every time I still can't believe it came and went so fast… it's not fair lol but hey, I'm here to bring you a few new Sherlock adventures till the next season BECAUSE THERE HAS TO BE A NEXT SEASON despite the series finale-ish seasons finale they had (right!?). Ugh I love this show so much haha so anyways thanks for the response. I love writing about Ruth and Sherlock. :)

 **Regular/Irregular**

Sherlock Holmes was becoming a regularly irregular part of my life. Sometimes it was mere hours in between seeing him. Sometimes days. However only once have we gone more than two weeks without contact.

Today it was only hours.

It'd been a bloody day in London, and I don't mean that as just a British curse word. I went back and forth around town, analyzing different crime scenes. The files on my desk needing my report were growing. Each time I went to my closet aka office it felt like only minutes before I was called back out. It was one bloody day, and now I mean it as a curse word.

If I put more value on my job, I'd stayed later, but I couldn't. There was an ache in my bones, an unshakeable fog in my brain, and my heartbeat was more like a countdown. Bad days were ahead and my body was warning me of it.

The clock read 6:30 when I dragged my feet into my bedroom, but it felt like days had passed since I woke up that morning. I slowly kicked off my shoes, slid off my shirt, and pulled off my pants. I grabbed the cleanest looking pair of plaid pajama shorts and a tank top off the floor and threw them on before shuffling back into the living room. I joined Meowfoy on the couch.

I murmured loving things into his ear as I rubbed his back, his purrs vibrated my body and momentarily ran out the aches that were slowing overcoming me. I curled into the corner of the couch, pulling him into my lap, and covering myself with the blanket thrown on the back of the couch. I numbly watched TV, wishing the warm of my cat tonight would push off the bad days a little bit longer, till I fell asleep.

I'm not sure what caused me to wake when I did. Draco's head was up and looking behind me but then he settled back into my chest. With the evening sunset darkening the room, my eyes immediately strained to locate a time. I relaxed back into the rows of the couch when I saw the clock on the cable box only read 7:22.

Then I heard a thump and a groan coming from behind me and my eyes shot open. I laid perfectly still for a moment, not even daring to breath. Draco was still a limp lump on my chest, but when I heard footsteps coming closer I pushed him off, and grabbed the closest object to me- the lamp. I tore it from the socket.

With a battle cry, I launched myself over the back of the couch for a surprise attack, blindly waving the lamp around till it collided with something.

There was a grunt and I fling the lamp back to the direction the noise came from.

"Ruth, Ruth, it's me. It's Sherlock!" A voice finally came from the abyss that had formed because of my terror.

I froze. That was Sherlock's voice. I stood still, trying to even my breaths as the abyss faded away, and his tall shape became to take form. With the lamp still in my head, I strode over to the kitchen and turned on the light.

"What the f..." I tried to yell out, but anger was taking control. "What the freak are you doing _inside_ MY freaking home?"

When I finally looked at Sherlock, he was rubbing his upper arm, his lips mouthing 'ow', but at my tone his head jerked up to me and his arms fell limp, like a little boy gearing up to tell a lie because he knew he was in deep trouble.

"Well, when I arrived-" he began. My fingers pinched the bridge of my nose when he started to speak and I ended up cutting him off.

"I don't even want to hear it." I reached forward and grabbed his wrist, yanking his arm.

"Ow!" He whined, but I ignored him and pulled him to the door. Sherlock barely tried to resist, though he could overpower me in a second.

"We're going to try this again," I said, as I opened my door, pushing him out. "You're going to knock like a normal person and I'm going to answer like a normal person. We're all going to be normal and you're not going to break into apartments and you're going to try not to walk all over me. Got it?"

But I didn't even wait for his answer before I slammed the door shut. I took a deep breath and not even a second later, there was a knock on my door.

I took another breath before I called, "Who is it?"

"Sherlock… Holmes. May I come in?" He answered and I tried not to grin.

I opened the door and said, "There are the manners I know your mother taught you."

"You know, I did knock, but you didn't answer," Sherlock practically sulked as he brushed past me into my apartment. I rolled my eyes to his back.

"But, Sherlock, you just don't break in to people's houses," I sighed. However it was a losing battle, so then I asked, "How did you even do it?"

He snorted, turning around to me. "Please, a _child_ could break into your lock."

"A child _did_ ," I muttered under my breath. "For real, Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Will you be my date tonight?" At those words, my stupid heart stopped. However I knew better than to think there wasn't more to what he was saying. I crossed my arms, waiting for him to continue.

"There is a traveling art exhibit coming to the National Gallery. Valuable items were stolen at the last two locations and the director does not believe the police is taking the matter serious enough. He believes the thief will strike again, this week. I, of course, was called because we both know the police are, in fact, incompetent."

"Sherlock..." I warned quietly, as he very well knew who he was talking to, and whether he'd admit it or not, he had other friends who worked on the force. "John couldn't come with you? He could easily pass as your date." Not that tingles of excitement weren't waking up my body, but he couldn't know that.

But Sherlock looked away then and mumbled, "John is busy with the wedding."

I watched his face for a moment, wondering if John had asked him to be the best man yet and I didn't know if I imagined how sad he looked. Then his eyes met mine, as if he could feel my sympathy, and held them like it was a stare off.

I looked away first and he knew then he got me.

"But you actually have to make an effort tonight. Keep your hair down to cover your ears and you definitely need to put on make up. We're not looking to farther the vampire myth, are we?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, as he ignored my indignant cry, "And I know you probably still shop second hand, but do you have anything that even resembles a gown?"

I suppose it was then he just got a good look at me, because the air he was going to use for more words, he just let out like a deep breath, and silence overtook the room. I looked back at him to find him not looking at my eyes anymore, but lower. Lower than I ever want anyone to see.

My thighs looked like a cat's claw post. Quite a few of my old scars had faded and you could only see them in certain lighting, but there was also quite a bit more that could only be covered by layers of clothing, and because of the fact my upper leg never saw the light of day, it was like there was a show light on them.

I self consciously tugged at the end of my pajama shorts, but there was no use. I hadn't expected to see anyone but Meowfoy for the rest of the evening, and I didn't care if him or the walls of my apartment saw my scars. It was everyone else that I cared about.

Finally, after a long second, Sherlock just nodded, almost matter of fact, and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Gown-" he started to continue, but now I just wanted to cover myself up.

"I have a dress," I cut him off, walking to my bedroom.

"Not just a dress, but a _gown,_ Ruth," Sherlock corrected.

I normally would have rolled my eyes at him, but I just said, "I've got it. What time do we have to leave?"

"7:50."

"Got it," I repeated absentmindedly, before shutting the door. Once I get my legs covered I could look him in the eyes.

It was nearly 7:30. How does he expect me to turn into Cinderella in 20 minutes?

* * *

I shut the door to my bedroom and turned to lean my back against it. There was no turning back now. There were no more secrets from my past, and truthfully probably only one now, which I knew I probably couldn't keep much longer. The closer I was suppose to get to Sherlock the easier it'll be for him to look right through me.

But focusing back at the task at hand, I forcefully wondered what Sherlock was currently doing in my living as I walked around my room putting my even attire together. First by turning on my curling iron, pulling off my tank top, and beginning on my makeup.

Makeup was the least of my worries and after applying basic foundation and adding blush, I put on nude eyeshadow and plastered my eyelashes with mascara. Then I broke out my red lipstick and quickly applied it to my lips.

Like I planned, my curling iron had warmed up by the time I was done and I quickly started pulling up a little bit of the front, leaving enough to curl around my ears, because unfortunately, Sherlock was right. My ears liked to poke out. I also parted my bangs across my forehead just to make them less severe.

Making my hair pretty took the most time and by the time I was done, I only had four minutes till I needed to be done. But the easiest part was done.

I purposefully slipped on my gown away from the mirror. I almost couldn't bare to look at it. The white dress flowed right below my knees and the top formed a laced sweetheart neckline. The rest of it was like smooth silk and had my arms covered in a tight lace. It probably wasn't as long, as I was taller than the person it originally belonged to, or as pretty, as there were more expensive dresses, as Sherlock would want, but it'll do. I thought it had a timeless elegance to it.

It was my mother's wedding dress.

My parents renewed their vows at their 15 year anniversary. It was a thing my dad thought would look good and therefor my mom went along with it for reasons that were beyond me at the time. She updated her dress to the fashion of the 2000s, thankfully removing bulky shoulder pads and the cheesy looking train. It barely looked like the same dress and not really anything you'd wear to a wedding, but this time she knew what it meant to be husband and wife.

Despite the whole event being for show, I remember her being happy that night. My dad was unrecognizable for the crowd and coaxed out real laughs and smiles, things I never knew I'd never heard before. I could finally see why my mom had fallen in love with him to begin with.

I never thought I'd wear the dress. I thought it'd be hiding my closet for the rest of my life, preserving the few happy times she had, but as soon as Sherlock asked me to come, I knew I'd be wearing it. I wanted one happy night for once, just like my mom.

* * *

I walked out of my bedroom with two minutes to spare to find Sherlock sitting on my couch and Draco on his lap. He rubbed his head against the hand that was trying to pet him. I could hear his purring all the way over here.

"Traitor," I mumbled to him, causing Sherlock's head to jerk up, before his whole body froze. "Told you I had a gown," I added, smugly.

Sherlock slowly unfroze himself, putting my cat on the couch next to him and sat up. He didn't say anything as he wiped off Draco's white hair off his pants. "That's your mother's dress. I remember her wearing it."

"What other gown do you think I'd own?" I replied. He only grunted in response.

"It's a little short but it will do. The cab's waiting outside. Let's go."

I followed him out of my apartment and as I locked the door I said with a voice thick with sarcasm, "Normally when a girl dresses up for an event the guy makes up something to say about how pretty she looks."

I began to walk down the hall when he replied, matter of fact, "I don't have to make anything up. The way you fixed your hair frames your face and covers your ears perfectly. The makeup around your eyes makes them brighter and the lipstick-"

My face burned at his scrutiny of my head and I cut him off, "A simple 'you look pretty, Ruth' would have sufficed. Thanks, though." I pushed past him and walked ahead so he couldn't see my face. I didn't need any of the blush I applied earlier. Sometimes sarcasm and a girl with awkward tendencies don't go well together.

"You look pretty, Ruth."

"And you look very handsome tonight, Sherlock." I was trying to deflect his compliments but I didn't realize the implications but the point he made next was true.

"I'm wearing what I normally wear," He commented, much to my chagrin.

We walked into my elevator now and I wish I could've just shove him out. I pressed the lobby button.

I shrugged, trying to play it off. "Well, it's true. I'm very fond of that billowing coat. Though..." I reached over to flip up the side of the collar that had flattened out. "There. Now, does my name have to be Ruth tonight? I want some super spy double oh seven name!"

This time, he rolled his eyes at me, and relief fills me. The farther away I get from Sherlock's looks the better.

"Or actually, maybe a superhero super spy, like Natasha Romanoff. I'm Natasha tonight, Sherlock."

"Please don't make me regret bringing you along. John wouldn't be this immature."

"But I'm not John."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "I know."


End file.
